


Then You Shall Bury Me

by watsonholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Jealousy, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:01:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonholmes/pseuds/watsonholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stood there in the middle of the sitting room for a total of seven hours and thirty-two minutes. John knows. He's been counting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then You Shall Bury Me

**Author's Note:**

> this is not a happy story.
> 
> this was from a prompt "Jealousy" given by moriartys-crownjewels on tumblr

John was standing there in the middle of the sitting room looking at a spot just above the tip of his left shoe. He looked at his watch and counted back time.

Two hours and twelve minutes. _Huh._

 

He stood there. He looked at his watch and counted back the second time.

Five hours and twenty-seven minutes.

 

He felt his legs go numb, or lack thereof. His knees were aching. His body felt extremely stiff. For the last time, John looked at his watch and counted back time.

Nine hours and forty-two minutes. _Right._

 

He looked at the spot he’d been staring at for more than seven hours one last time and slowly took a step forward. His knees instantly gave out and now he was on all fours. He was so exhausted he could sleep right there on the floor. He had lowered Sherlock’s body beneath the ground nine hours and forty-four minutes ago. Now, all he could think of was how exhausted he was; he could sleep there on the floor, it wouldn’t take much effort. And so he did, smack in the middle of the sitting room. He fell asleep and there he rest his weary body for seven hours and three minutes.

 

He woke up gradually; opening his left eye and assessing where he was and what time was it. He opened his other eye and blinked a couple of times. He rubbed his eyes, he didn’t feel sleepy but he knew he was still tired. Still lying on the floor, John could see sunlight streaking his left cheek up to his forehead. It was a sunny day, warm and just perfect. He slowly got up and stood while surveying the flat. All he could see were things of Sherlock. Figures. This is their flat. _No._ This was Sherlock’s flat. Now it’s just his.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds. Maybe, just maybe, if he closed his eyes, he could hear Sherlock shifting on the sofa, could hear his dressing gown rustling as he dramatically arranges it for the optimal dramatic look. Maybe if he just closed his eyes long enough, he could hear Sherlock tinkering his lab equipments there on the table. And he’d ask John to make tea; or ask to pass him a pen—the pen just across the table easily accessible to Sherlock. John smiled at the thought. He always suspected Sherlock making him do inane things just to have John near him, like the text message he needed to be sent, or the phone on his jacket. If he just closed his eyes, he would still feel Sherlock’s eyes on him. It was like Sherlock was slowly peeling off every fold of John, deducing things about him and examining John to his very center. Many are unnerved by Sherlock’s gaze. John never was, though. He oddly took pride in that; he stood his ground, looking unfazed as Sherlock metaphorically undressed him. John knows he can’t get away with this for very long; standing there in the middle of the sitting room, much like he did before, his eyes closed and grinning like an idiot. So, he opened his eyes. It really was a nice day outside.

He looked at his watch. Seventeen hours and forty-three minutes since he buried Sherlock.

 

He went up to his room, not risking another glance at the flat. Each step was agony. His whole body was so stiff, it gave him an excuse not to think of anything else other than that.

 

He sat on his bed, looked through the window and saw how perfect everything was. He smiled to himself. How could he feel upset over the day’s weather just because his best friend killed himself and John had to bury him? How could he even be jealous of the other people whose life kept on going without knowing this brilliant man? How unbelievably stupid was he? But he did feel upset that the day was so perfect and warm and brilliant. He was jealous of the people who still have something to live for. It may be irrational, but it was the truth. It was the only truth John knew at that moment. He couldn’t hold back a sob so he didn’t hold back the other ones that followed. He wept. He’d like to think he was weeping for humanity, for the world, because they would never have the pleasure of seeing Sherlock at his finest, would never see the brilliance firsthand. He’d like to think he was weeping for them, so he did.

 

Tears still kept on falling, streaking his cheeks, as he fiddled with the Browning with his right hand and typed a text message with his left. John hit the send button and placed his phone beside him. Nineteen hours and twenty-one minutes. He turned the safety off his Browning and aimed.

A few kilometers away, DI Lestrade heard his phone chime and read the text. He quickly got into his car and drove off, hoping against hope he’d make it, but deep down, he knew he wouldn’t. His mind couldn’t stop flashing him the message he saw.

_Dead body here at Baker Street. Come at once.-JW_

 

 A single shot was heard outside Baker Street. Nineteen hours and twenty minutes after he watched Sherlock’s coffin being lowered in the ground, John followed him.

His phone chimed twice.

_John, don’t be an idiot. I’m coming home. I’ve got a brilliant story. –SH_

_John?-SH_

His phoned chime another time.

_John? Answer me. This isn’t funny anymore. I am not amused. –SH_

And then a last time.

_Please._


End file.
